


Never Again

by metalmeisje



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Magic, Dark, Gen, sexual activity hinted at but not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalmeisje/pseuds/metalmeisje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But in this moment, balancing on the edge of a metaphorical knife just before the ritual really started, a moment suspended in time, he could practically smell the possibilities of it all. (Note to the Yogscast: Do not read any of my fics on stream.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> DARK!FIC! Blood and lots of it, maiming, angst, a little bit of the sexy stuff but VERY vaguely.
> 
> My first attemt at something like this and I'm not completely satisfied, but overall it was fun to write! Don't read it if it ain't your thing, as usual. Lyrics are from The Perfect Drug by Nine Inch Nails.

_I got my head but my head is unravelling  
can’t keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling_

“Come on, Strife. Live a little.”

William Strife had always considered himself an exceptional student. He worked hard to get the highest grades possible, he excelled at the practical courses all students had to partake in, he never missed a class and he even did extra work when necessary. Everything was going so well that he was convinced it would be a smooth ride towards graduation and life as a working spaceman.

The one thing he hadn’t counted on was Xephos.

The medic-to-be had always been a good friend of Strife and was similarly passionate about their degree, but ever since year one it had been obvious that there was a little more to his fellow student than meets the eye. True, during classes he dutifully paid attention and did his work, and as a medic in the field his skills were among the best.

He just didn’t always like to play by the rules.

Strife suspected it might have something to do with his friendship with Sips, that one human attending their academy that always laughed a little too loud but with whom Xephos had quickly struck up a close friendship that no one questioned. The human known as _life bringer_ deserved to be there like the rest of them, and with Xephos (and later on, he had to admit, even Strife had taken a peculiar sort of liking to him) at his back, no one bothered to question his presence.

The thing is, apart from a strangely hilarious sense of humour and a big heart, Sips also had a streak for adventure that Xephos seemed to catch early on in their friendship – and which fit him like a glove. Next to him, Strife felt terribly uninteresting. So when Xephos asked him to “live a little”, Strife had felt obligated to show his classmate that he wasn’t the dull, boring teenager his friends apparently thought he was – albeit hesitantly.

“Please tell me this is not one of Sips’ ideas. Because if that’s the case, I’m bailing out now. Before it has the chance to escalate greatly.”

“Oh, please,” Xephos scoffed, then raised his eyebrows mockingly. “No, this is all my idea. Are you in?”

“Are you going to tell me what we’re going to do?”

He should have known he would only get a beaming and slightly unnerving grin in return.

_I come along but I don't know where you're taking me_

There had been so many moments after that confirming nod of his head that he could have turned around, he later realized. Hindsight is, as they say, twenty-twenty, but still Strife thought he should have taken one of the many chances to turn back that had presented themselves to him so obviously. He should have refused to take part in Xephos mad ideas when he had still felt only an inkling of discomfort at the suspiciously full backpack, the time of day (or rather, night) Xephos had wanted to meet up at one of the abandoned buildings not too far from their base, the icy claws of fear gripping at his mind from the very beginning.

Of course, that’s all well and good, but the facts remained the same. And facts were something he could cling to, even now; even though he really wanted nothing more than to burn the horrible memories from his brain until everything was a dull, grey, _safe_ nothingness. But the facts remained the same.

_I shouldn't go but you're wrenching dragging shaking me_

He shivered and tried to hide in his leather jacket, his hands pushed as deep down into his pockets as possible to try and lessen the dry chill of the winds that always haunted the surface of their planet, especially on the plains where their university was located. He squinted against the dust particles and tried to feel relief when he saw the silhouette of his friend approach, dimly lit by the stars and the cold light of one of the lamps on the side of the building, but couldn’t shake that same feeling of dread that always haunted him when he stepped outside his comfort zone. He was seriously considering blowing off the whole thing and going home (there you had it, one of those oh-so-obvious warning signs), but when he saw Xephos’ excited grin and barely dimmed eyes that showed his excitement so obviously, he mentally shrugged and found himself undeniably fascinated.

“You’re not bailing on me, are you?”

“Are you going to tell me what we’re going to do?” he replied, a curt shake of his head sealing his fate. Xephos’ eyes glowed even brighter, a small beacon in a nearly-dark night.

“You’ll see. You’ll love it.”

He barely remembered the building afterwards, anonymous as it was. There were vague memories of a dark stairway, dusty old rooms that smelled like rust and abandonment, a quietly whispered reassurance that _no one ever uses this place, don’t worry so much Will._ And the torches, of course. As soon as they had entered the basement Xephos had dropped his backpack and got out the familiar torches they all had with them at all times; handy, battery-driven little things that barely took up any space so you could always bring enough, because rule number one ever since they had been allowed to get out into the field to learn their job was the same for everyone: Stay away from the dark. The dark is never safe.

Quietly, Strife helped Xephos spread the torches around the room, their light soft but bright enough to make sure they could see everything. When that was done, Strife glanced around the room and felt his breath hitch at the sight of the ominous stone construction at the most northern wall of the room. It stood alone on a small platform, about a feet above the dirty floor, with faded markings on the top and sides that Strife could barely make out underneath the soot and dust.

Behind him, he heard Xephos laughing softly, the sound shaking him from his paralysis.

“What the _fuck_ are we doing here?”

“Oh Strife, don’t be such a spoilsport. You know you could use some excitement in your life and I am happy to provide that. It’s perfectly safe, don’t you worry about it. Besides, I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And with that, Xephos knelt down next to his now considerably less bulky backpack and reached inside, an ominous smile still tugging at his lips. Slowly, as if he wanted to draw out the moment, he took out a…

Strife swallowed. Well, then.

The blade of the knife shone in the yellow-tinged light of the torches, looking sharp and ominous.

_turn off the sun pull the stars from the sky_

He had been right, of course. Xephos was always right and could convince others of that with a recklessness that only people who felt they had nothing left to lose always seemed to have. Strife didn’t have that insurance, he always felt he had _everything_ left to lose if he strayed from the safe path that he’d decided on – and that’s what had baffled him the most, after. Despite everything, from his carefully established reputation to his pathological fear of things unknown, he had let Xephos convince him that cutting up their arms in a creepy, abandoned basement to perform some sort of vague ritual was absolutely the best thing they could do.

He had been right about the excitement, and he had been right about Strife loving it.

Blood magic turned out to be a lot more methodical than Strife would have guessed. He had expected chaos, uncontrollable forces at work that they had to keep in line with nothing more than a silver tool and sheer force of will, but apparently even chaos abided by certain rules. They took to it with the focused enthusiasm of people who didn’t know any better, and Strife found that this was something he could actually excel at. After the first hesitant cuts and nervous giggling his fear had turned into something eerily close to pleasure, and he decidedly pushed away any doubts he had to throw himself into this adventure wholeheartedly.

Because it was an adventure, at first. Xephos quickly became just as skilled as Strife was (of course there was nothing Xephos didn’t excel at, so that came as no surprise), and together they made a marvellous pair, summoning larger and more powerful magic with every passing ritual. They took the scars for what they were and treasured them as a secret shared between the two of them, revelling in the fact that no one else knew.

As their experience grew their caution quickly receded and they took on larger things, better things, giving up more of themselves to reap the rewards they had only dared to dream of before. The mornings after were always vague, muffled underneath a blanket of blood and smoke and shadows. Strife recalled one particular night more than any of the other ones, when they had abandoned all restraint and laughed like madmen, dancing around in the dusty room as euphoria drove them forward. He remembered how hard the concrete floor had felt as he dropped down on his knees in front of a blood-smeared Xephos, giddy and dizzy with borrowed power still humming in his mangled veins. He had stared with wonder at the traces of red covering the skin that was slowly revealed in front of him as a quiet sigh slipped away from him. He remembered the feel of coarse hairs that scratched his cheeks pleasantly, a vague salty taste in his mouth and a scalp that had hurt for days afterwards from the vice-like grip Xephos had had on him. The memories were blurry and painted a dark carmine, but they had still managed to make him blush for a long time.

Of course, all good things must eventually meet their end.

_the more I give to you the more I die_

Strife knelt down in front of the altar, every crack of every stone somehow etched in his memory by now, and took a deep breath in preparation. This had quickly become his favourite part of every ritual; sure, he appreciated the moment the razor sharp knife cut through skin and unveiled the wonder below, the feeling of being on top of the world for days on end, the genuine pleasure this seemed to give them, he loved it all. But in this moment, balancing on the edge of a metaphorical knife just before the ritual really started, a moment suspended in time, he could practically smell the _possibilities_ of it all. They whirled around them, blocking out everything but the feeling of being ready, being present, of looking down from the edge of a cliff without any sense of fear.

He felt more than heard Xephos kneel down beside him, breathing steady and calm, and he allowed himself a small smile. They were _amazing_ at this, strong and tuned in to each other and capable of anything. And today, well, today was going to be special. Today they were going to do their biggest ritual yet, a ritual of regeneration. If they could pull this off – of course they could, Strife was already sure of that – they would actually be able to alter themselves, could draw on the energy of their sacrifice to _heal_ and _improve_. All for the good of the squad of course, they told themselves; imagine how much easier it would be if no one ever got hurt.

He glanced to his side and saw Xephos looking at him, a dangerous glint in his eye as he held his own sacrificial knife in front of him. He has shed his shirt just minutes ago, just like Strife, in preparation for the ritual and looked a little cold but ready to go. Strife grinned back, unable to contain his enthusiasm, and answered with a barely perceptible nod. They were ready for this.

With a deep breath they both struck at once and felt the tension in the room dissolve and transform into something more independent, a presence that they had no words for but had become intimately familiar with. This ritual required relatively little blood; they had given far more previously, when they had been reckless and did not yet recognize the warning signs of their own body. It was going to be easy, really. Strife hissed as he cut again, a little deeper this time, watching the blood well up almost as an afterthought. It dripped down his arm and into the altar, crimson and beautiful; Strife had grown more appreciative of the contrast of dark red on dull grey over time, he found.

Next to him, Xephos inhaled sharply and put away his knife. Strife followed his example and quickly went through the ancient words of the spell in his mind one last time. When Xephos nodded again, eyes already slightly glazed over but surprisingly composed, he inhaled deeply and let the words out. They tumbled out, an old tongue of awkwardly clipped off syllables that felt uneasy in his mouth. As soon as he said them though, he felt the air change again; it thrummed around them and inside him, all the way down to his bones, making his blood sing with an almost sensual feeling of pleasure. He sighed and closed his eyes, dipping his hand into the blood that was still pooled in the altar, relishing secretly in the way the thick, viscous substance clung to his skin as if it was just as eager to hold on to him as the other way around.

The symbols were simple but had to be drawn correctly the first time around, so he concentrated on the pale skin of Xephos’ chest and dragged the thick blood over it, simple curves and lines that almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the torches. Xephos exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on Strife’s, and also dipped his hand in the pool of blood in front of them in preparation of the last part of the ritual. When Strife was done, Xephos grinned and reached out to Strife, copying his actions, and Strife felt a shudder run through him when the blood touched his bare chest.

There was a moment of unease in between heartbeats when they were done, and for the smallest part of a second Strife thought that they had fucked up. But then it hit him like lightning and he groaned in surprise, feeling the currents of sizzling power rage through his body as the spell did its work. Next to him, Xephos had leaned forward on his knees and was making slightly worrying sounds, but Strife found himself unable to care. And then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. The power ebbed away to a more manageable level, but unlike with previous rituals, it didn’t disappear completely. He could feel it still, thrumming just underneath his skin; it felt like he had twenty cups of coffee, like he’d been injected with adrenaline – he felt so much more _alive._

He risked a glance at Xephos and frowned when he saw the other man still hunched over, moaning softly as he tried to regain his composure. Strife willed his arms to life so he could touch his friend and see what was wrong, but as he did so, he saw the unblemished skin of his bare arms – the cuts were gone. Not even a scar was left, like before; it was like someone had taken a magic eraser and just wiped away the blood and the wounds, as if they had never been there in the first place.

They’d _done it._

_I got my head but my head is unravelling_

He laughed out loud, unable to contain his glee. _They’d actually, really frigging done it_. Next to him, Xephos looked up with glassy eyes and a pained expression, and Strife didn’t understand. Wasn’t he _happy?_ They’d actually done it, they were _invincible_ now _._

Xephos’ voice was soft and small in the aftermath of the storm.

“Strife… That was bad. This is… This is too much, man.”

“What are you talking about?” Strife replied with a smirk. “We fucking did it. Look at your arms!”

Xephos looked at his arms, disbelief clear in his eyes. Like Strife’s, his arms looked completely unharmed. He shook his head slightly and looked back up at Strife, clearly in pain. “But we’re not supposed to do this, man. Didn’t you feel that? It was…”

Xephos shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to warm himself, but Strife could feel anger rising in his gut. This was _unacceptable._

He just needed to show him.

An idea silently rose from the back of his mind and he grinned, reaching out to the knife casually.

“We did it. Nothing can touch us now. I’ll show you.”

He felt Xephos’ eyes on him as he grabbed the knife tightly – it fit so well in his hand, so perfectly attuned to his very being – and reached for his friend’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. Look.”

Like lightning he struck, pressing the blade into the flesh of his friends arm, and shivered at the sound of Xephos’ scream. It pulled at something inside him, something that had been sleeping like a cat curled up on the couch but which now raised its head, purring contently at the attention it was getting. He grabbed Xephos tighter and cut again, deeper this time, and deeper still, until there was nothing but a mangled mess of blood and torn flesh.

Xephos’ screams were shriller now, panic colouring his voice as he tried frantically to get away, but Strife ignored it in favour of the blood rushing in his ears, the steady sound of his heartbeat as he moved methodically up to the biceps, the clavicle, back down via the chest, leaving trails of blood on pale skin in the wake of the knife.

“You see, friend?” Strife whispered, in awe with himself. “You see now? We can’t be _hurt_ anymore.”

_can’t keep control can't keep track of where it's traveling_

The world became a blur of blood for a while after that. His head felt clearer than ever, every sight and sound and smell tinged with iron and crimson wonder, as he drifted away inside himself, detached from the horror in front of him. But in the end, it was the sound of his friend _his friend, oh god_ begging him to stop that snapped him out of his reveries and back to the real world. And as the storm died down, his gut clenched in horror at the sight in front of him.

Xephos had closed his eyes and was curled up on the floor, not a piece of his skin above the waist untouched. There was so much _blood_ , much more than any other time. He was covered in cuts and scratches, some shallow but most of them running deeper than would ever be necessary, and Strife was pretty sure that you weren’t supposed to see all the way down to the humerus, not matter what the ritual was for. He felt sick; before he could stop himself, he fell forward to his hands and vomited right next to the altar, the bile burning its way up from his stomach.

As soon as his stomach had emptied himself he scrambled towards Xephos, the knife long forgotten on the ground. Oh god, but he didn’t know where to start – why hadn’t he healed? Some of the cuts were still bleeding heavily and he panicked for a long second, trying frantically to remember his first aid classes as he watched his friend die.

Shit. If he didn’t do anything, Xephos was going to _die._

In a daze he tore up one of their shirts and watched the blue and white mix with red, spreading angry flowers on the fabric as the blood immediately seeped through. He bound the wounds as best as he could and prayed for dear life that he had at least managed to stop the worst of it for now. If he hadn’t…

Xephos moaned again and opened his eyes a fraction, and Strife balled his hands into fists until his nails dug guilty crescents in the flesh parts of his hand.

“Xeph… Xeph, stay awake. Shit… Come on, stay with me!” When Xephos eyes fluttered shut again, Strife stifled a scream and hid his head in his hands.

They had fucked up. They had fucked up _so bad._

_it’s not as fun to pick up the pieces_

In the end, he managed to stabilise Xephos enough to half-drag, half-carry him to the med bay nearest to them and vehemently ignored the accusing looks the medics gave him as they took Xephos away, already busying themselves with whatever supplied they used for fuckups like them. The hours that followed were the worst of his life, pacing up and down the corridors as he waited for news, any news.

In the end, the gods were merciful; it had looked at lot worse than it was, they told him – as far as that was possible, Strife added grimly in his head – and his friend would be fine. And could he please tell them what in earth they had been up to?

Somehow, he managed to talk them both out of more serious repercussions than merely being suspended for a couple of weeks, so he supposed he should be grateful for that.

He couldn’t find it in himself to be grateful.

But life went on, as it tends to do, and Strife felt nothing but guilt when Xephos told him a few days later that he thought it’d be best if they stopped ‘working’ together, a grim expression on his face and just the smallest hint of fear in his eyes that Strife knew he would hate himself a lifetime for. He watched his friend turn around and leave, shoulders slightly hunched and walking a little too quick for a casual stroll, and in that moment, Strife made the first vow of his life.

Never again.


End file.
